


Stars in the Dark

by athena_crikey



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: All the guilt, F/M, Happy Ending, PTSD, Things can only get better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2018-08-15 10:57:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8053681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Peter meets Hope on the worst night of his adult life.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s hot in his corner of the pub, the sticky kind of fug that comes from an open fireplace and copious amounts of alcohol. Smoke lies heavy in the air, although just at the moment Peter isn’t contributing to it – he’s run out. He’s run out of beer, too. And, he just realised, courage. 

He is in fact, completely empty. Empty and useless, and without any hope of redemption. 

A foot crunches on broken glass on the other side of the table. He only looks up when a low female voice speaks. “Oh – someone’s broken a glass here. I’ll get someone.”

He looks up to see a bird with long, dark hair and a slim figure – in the low light and with partially blurred vision, it’s all he notices. “It’s fine,” he cuts out, voice gritty.

She doesn’t move, looking at him more closely. “Are you alright?”

He wipes a hand across his face – damp with sweat, and snot, and tears. A real picture, he is. “Fine,” he sneers. 

“I think I should get someone over here to clean it up,” she says, wavering.

“Leave it,” he snaps, and flinches himself when he sees her shy away. “Just… leave it.” 

She slides away, but the damage is already done. He’s no longer safe, even here. He gets up, stumbling out from behind the table, and slips out of the pub. Outside the winter air is like a slap to the face; he staggers briefly before regaining his balance. 

He has only two choices: off to another pub, or back home. Home, to sit by the phone until he hears second-hand how it all turned out. He drags a hand through his by now unruly hair, reaches into his pocket for a cigarette only to remember he’s run out, and kicks his way angrily through the streets towards his flat. Once there, he toes off his shoes, drops his jacket on a chair and curls up fully-clothed into his bed with his blankets pulled tightly over his shivering form. 

He doesn’t notice sleep coming for him. But there’s no escaping the nightmares it brings.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Peter’s woken at three in the morning by the phone. It’s the station: Thursday’s in hospital with a bullet in his chest, Morse is in the Kidlington cells under arrest for murder. They need him to come in. 

He hangs up and stares at the wall across from his bed for nearly a minute, stupefied. Then, finally, he pulls himself to his feet and gets moving.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

He goes back to the pub that night – he needs a drink, badly. Needs more than one, in fact.

It’s only when he’s retreating to his corner that he sees a woman sitting at a table further down, staring at him. She has long, curling locks and a pretty finely-boned face. And, with a feeling like rising nausea, Peter’s memories of the previous night suddenly wash over him. 

Slowly, hesitantly, Peter steps over to her. “You were here last night,” he says – it’s not really a question. She raises a thin eyebrow. 

“You remember.”

He gives a half-wincing smile. “I should apologize. I… wasn’t myself.” He glances over his shoulder at the bar. “Can I buy you something? To make up for it?”

She considers him, eyes running over him in a way that would make someone less familiar with female attention blush. “Alright. Thank you. I’ll have a G&T.” She has a flat, unremarkable American accent. Peter’s no expert, but he can only imagine she comes from the centre or west side of the country – she has neither an Atlantic nor southern accent. 

He fetches her drink, and a lager for himself, and returns to set them down on the table and draw out the chair. “I’m Peter.”

“Hope.” To his surprise she holds out her hand to shake – she has a surprisingly firm grip, although her hand is narrow and soft. Her clothes are good quality although low-key: a simple jacket and skirt, with a blue shirt that sets off her complexion nicely. 

“Wotcher.”

She blinks, then gives a pretty smile. “Are you feeling better tonight?” she asks, her air confident peppered with light amusement. 

Peter stiffens, struck by a sudden dart of guilt. “Honestly, no. Not very much.” He takes a sip of his drink; she sobers into a concerned look, and he goes on. “Last night one of my colleagues was shot, and another arrested on a false accusation.”

“Oh. Oh, damn, I’m sorry – that’s horrible.”

He’s not sure what surprises him more, her thoughtless oath or the fact that she genuinely seems to mean it. 

“But if the accusation’s false, can’t it be proven?”

“The man who accused him is dead,” says Peter, simply. 

He sees her pause, eyes becoming guarded. “What is it you do that’s so dangerous?” she asks, not very casually. 

Peter gives a little dry laugh. “I’m a policeman, miss.”

“Oh! I’m sorry, I just –”

“Thought you might’ve fallen in with a wrong ‘un? It’s not surprising,” he allows. 

“Forgive me.” She gives him a soft, earnest look. “Then you’re one of the men who go about in the dark serge and those hats?” She doesn’t say funny hats, but he can hear the implication. He shakes his head.

“No miss. Plainclothes. Detective Sergeant.” He can see the words go right over her head, more’s the pity. Most birds are impressed by the title. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

She gives a wide smile at this. “No, I’m not. America. Wyoming, in fact,” she announces, a little brusquely, as though to get it over with. 

“That’s one of the middle ones, isn’t it?” Geography is no strong point of his, but she nods. “Must be nice there.”

Hope tilts her head to the side. “I genuinely think you mean that,” she says, surprised.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because, sergeant, Wyoming is about as back-water as you get, excepting the Bayou, and we are in the centre of civilization here.” Her tone is a little ironic, but also a little amused.

“Oh, they’ve been ragging you, have they?” he asks, glancing around at the room in general as if to speak for his town. 

“I dread announcing myself,” she says, rather cheerfully now. “But you said ‘they’ – aren’t you from Oxford?”

Peter actually laughs. “Lord, no. Nowhere near as posh. Just a little housing estate on the edge of a manufacturing region near here – you wouldn’t know it.”

“And you came here and became a policeman.”

He shrugs. “Everyone I knew worked jammed up in tiny factories sweating away under machines. It never appealed. So I chucked that and got myself shipped off to Hendon – police training,” he explains at her puzzled look. “After that, it was just working my way up; not so hard so long as you put your back into it.” He sees she’s finished, and waves a hand towards her glass. “Let me get you another.”

“I can –”

“I insist.” He picks up their glasses and goes back to the bar, obtaining a second round. He sees her watching him in the mirror behind the bar, and straightens a little. 

When he returns she’s pushing her hair back with palely lacquered nails. “D’you like it here?” he asks, setting the drinks down again. She purses her lips, considering. 

“Well, yes, of course,” she says, taking a sip of her drink. “It’s amazing – so old and full of history, and the architecture is beautiful. And the green fields and hedge-lined pastures are lovely and very quaint. But sometimes the people can be a little …”

“Condescending?” suggests Peter, and she looks glad he’s said it for her.

“Snooty, at least. Well, maybe proud is a better word. They have a lot to be proud of, too, plenty of academic achievement and a wonderful city. But that’s not quite an excuse to forget that there are good things outside of this little place as well.”

“Such as?”

She looks surprised, then leans in closer. “Well, where I come from nothing is very old, or all cramped up small and built up into fairy-tale castles like this place. The land is spread out, huge vast spaces that have hardly been explored and with no one for miles and miles. We have mountains, Peter, beautiful ones, and forests that grow thick and green and smell of pine, and golden plains that stretch as far as your eye can see – as far as you can ride in a day and still you wouldn’t see the end. Half the state is owned by the government, and most of it is parkland – Yosemite, Grand Teton.”

“Like Yosemite Sam,” he says, and receives a tired smile in return – he has the feeling he’s not the first one to point out the comparison. 

“Most of the people here, they only ever go to Europe, and even then just to places like Paris or Florence; perhaps occasionally the Alps. I know we seem humble in comparison, but to me this place just seems… oh, like a snow globe. All serene and perfect but really just a never-changing world trapped in its own illusion. Out there, things are real.” She speaks with surprising passion, eyes sparkling. 

“You’re right,” he says, suddenly. “Things do look perfect here. But what’s on the surface is rarely what’s underneath.”

She pulls back a little, becoming more sombre, and he regrets having dampened the mood. She’s finished her drink, and stands. “I have to get going – plenty of work. Will I see you again?”

“If I can.”

“Here? Friday night? I can’t get away again ‘til then; I’m trying to finish my dissertation by April.”

“I’ll try.” He raises his glass to her, and she laughs and slips out past him. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------

Peter expects things to get better, because they can hardly get much worse. But as it happens they remain the same, as though stuck in some sort of immovable inertia to torment him and the rest of those trapped in the events that took place at Blenheim Vale. 

Thursday remains in stable but critical condition, and the doctors refuse to share their predictions for his survival, not to mention recovery. Morse remains in Kidlington’s cells, undergoing day after day of questioning by their detectives, County refusing to cede jurisdiction to Oxford. The whole of the Force is awash with rumours about Deere’s death, Morse’s guilt, and the reason Thursday and Morse were at Blenheim Vale alone to begin with. And Peter, who knows the truth of it all, can’t say a damn thing. 

He really, honestly considers not going to the pub when Friday evening rolls around. Is half-decided on dragging himself home for a drink alone in his room. Only his relentless refusal to wallow in self-pity keeps him from doing as he would prefer to, and instead drives him down to the pub to meet Hope.

She’s sitting in the corner near the fireplace, her long hair thick and shining around her face, creamy skin soft and perfect in the firelight. Peter desperately wants a scotch, but he also doesn’t want to get pissed in front of this woman, so he buys himself a lager instead, and a G&T for her while he’s at it. 

“Detective Sergeant,” she greets him with a smile, and just a notch more respect, when he arrives – clearly she’s been chatting to some of the local birds. 

“Miss…” he pauses, pulling out the chair with his ankle. “I don’t actually know, do I?”

“Bolton.” She takes her drink from him, her fingers brushing against his hand; he feels his heart give a little twist. 

“Jakes,” he replies, with a mock-formal bow of his head. “I realised, I never asked you why you were here. Student, are you?”

“Yes, working on my doctorate.” She says it as though he should know what it is; he’s aware it’s a higher level of education than the undergraduates, but beyond that the significance escapes him. 

“In what?”

“Geology. Wyoming has some of the most interesting geological features in the world – in the continental US, certainly. I want to study them.”

“Why? I mean, what would you do with whatever you learned?” he asks, drawing a line down the condensation on the side of his glass with his thumb; the coolness of it is soothing against the heat of the room. 

She gives him a smile that twists his stomach further. “You’re very unlike the rest of this town, you know that? Everyone here is focused on academic standing – publishing, holding scientific conferences, spreading their knowledge and their fame.”

“Is that what you want to do? Become a bigwig in American geology?” he asks it with humour in his voice, and sees the answering shimmer of amusement in her eyes. 

“Certainly it’s what all right-minded geologists should want,” she says, in mock-seriousness. Then cants her head to the side, so that some of her thick hair tumbles off her shoulder, flowing like silk. “But I just want to understand the place I come from, to see how it came to be. If you could see some of the amazing things I’ve seen, you would understand. They beg to be studied, to be explained. Do you see?”

Peter takes a sip of his lager; it’s almost empty. “I think so. Doesn’t sound so different from what we do – solve mysteries, uncover the past, figure out why A brained B. Probably with fewer court cases, though. Just as well; they’re a pain, a long court case.”

Somehow, the words make him think of Morse. Morse, locked behind bars in the Kidlington jail, now awaiting transfer to Farnleigh. The case against him may be a put-up, but it will take weeks yet before they convince County of it, which means weeks that Morse will be a copper in an open jail. He looks down, feeling his face tightening despite his best intentions. 

“Is something wrong?” her voice is dove-soft; her hand slips out to rest on his. 

“Sorry. It’s – that friend of mine. He’s still in the chokey – prison,” he clarifies, cherishing the warmth of her smooth skin; he holds very still, as though she were a butterfly he might frighten off with too-quick movement. 

“He’s a friend? You said colleague, before.”

Peter pauses. Thinks of Morse, proud and scrappy and lonesome as a stray cat, scratching at most who get too near. Nearly all except Thursday, and thanks to that the Inspector’s still on the critical list. Friend? He hadn’t thought so for a long time, but lately… of course, now it’s too late for their friendship. “He’s… maddening – brightest man I know, and still sometimes the dimmest. Tumbles into trouble regular as clockwork, and somehow manages to climb back out of it despite putting the back up of nearly everyone he works with. Until now.”

Hope’s hand gives a little twitch on his, and he looks up to meet her eyes. They’re blue, like Morse’s, and they shine in her fair face. “Can you tell me what happened?”

He bites his lip, eyes falling. “I don’t think I can. Hell, I just…” He pulls away, runs a hand over his hair and sighs. “Sorry. But I can’t.”

“That’s alright. Maybe someday you’ll want to tell me.” She finishes her drink. 

He wants to tell her that _wanting_ has nothing to do with it, that it’s a matter of _can_ or in this case, _can’t_. Confessing to Morse was the first time he’d spoken about Blenheim Vale, ever. He doesn’t think he can bear to repeat the sickening gut-wrenching agony of that admission. 

Peter finishes his lager and sets it down beside her empty glass. “Another?” he offers, settling in closer, trying to chase away the chill of Blenheim Vale. 

“Actually… would you like to get dinner?”

Peter raises his eyebrows. “Asking me out already?” he drawls. She reaches back for her purse and coat.

She smiles, lips pink and perfect. “I suppose I am.”

They rise, leaving some coins on the table, and wrap up against the cold. 

Peter has a usual string of restaurants he brings his dates to, just as he has a usual set of conversations, and of lines he uses to get himself invited home. 

He finds, as he pushes open the door and they pause in the shelter of the doorway, that he’s tired of it. Tired of playing the game he’s refined to an art. Tired of being an empty façade.

“Why don’t you choose somewhere?” he suggests. “I’m in the mood for something new.”

\---------------------------------------------------------

They end up in a tiny Indian restaurant, just a hole in the wall off Glouster Green with cheerful saffron-coloured walls and a smell of jasmine rice in the air. The tables are cheap, rickety affairs, so small that seated across from one another their knees brush under the surface. There’s no tablecloth, just forks and knives set on napkins on the table’s scarred surface. At the back of the narrow room there’s an open window that looks into the kitchen.

Peter spent 3 years eating Reform School food, and knows that after that he’ll never complain of inedibility again. But he’s certainly never been anywhere so cramped, save at the pub when the game’s on. 

“I love it here,” says Hope, spreading her napkin over her lap. “We don’t have anything like this at home.”

“What’s home like?” he asks as a waitress pours them both water and deposits menus. He flips to the back and sees with a sinking heart that the beer’s all imported. 

She puts down her menu, eyes looking far-off into the distance. When she thinks there’s a stillness about her, a kind of concentration he’s rarely seen. His birds have all been talkers, quick to exploit any silence in a conversation. She takes the time to think – to say just what she means. “It’s so much bigger,” she says finally. “The houses, the cars, the streets, they’re all bigger. There’s so much space – the land feels endless. We have blue skies that are so wide you can’t can scarcely take them in; it’s sweltering in the summer and freezing in the winter. The people there are real – they say what they mean and get on with what they’re doing. People here have been wonderful, but they’re like… china dolls living in tiny toy houses. They’re erudite and scintillating, but the things they talk about – Latin and Renaissance poetry and classical music – it’s not real. None of them could find a lost calf, or muck out a stable.”

Her description of her college peers reminds him of no one so much as Morse, and for a moment he smiles at the image of the DC in his shirtsleeves with a pitchfork surrounded by horse shit. He sobers with the thought that Morse would certainly prefer it to Farnleigh, feels his face cloud over.

“Peter?”

He shakes his head. “No. I know the type you mean, is all. They’re not bad – not all of them – but they live in their own world. And by their own rules.”

She tilts her head forward so that her hair tumbles down over her shoulders, her eyes wide and honest. “You’re thinking of your friend – Constable Morse, isn’t it?”

He stares. “How’d you know that?”

“It’s been in the paper. Quite a lot. ‘Oxford detective accused of murder.’ It was your boss, wasn’t it? The murder?”

For a minute he thinks she means Thursday, and the idea of Morse being accused of that shooting makes him sick. But he realises she must mean Standish, and shrugs. “Indirectly. But I suppose it’s all the same. It was a frame up,” he adds, with cold certainty.

“I believe you.”

The waitress comes by and he waves her impatiently away; his entire attention is focused on Hope, on her clear blue eyes. “Why?” he asks. 

“Well for one thing the _Mail_ has been raising all sorts of questions.” 

Dorothea Frazil, thinks Peter, acting on inside information. The fact that the station’s suddenly started leaking like a sieve hasn’t escaped Bright’s attention, but he’s been uncharacteristically slow to put his foot down. Peter doesn’t think he’s the only one to be taking advantage of it.

“And for another, this so-called murder plot seems entirely dependent on your friend being a crazed power-hungry murderer, and if he were I think you would know.” She says it with flinty derision, putting both her hands down on the table as if in protest. 

At this he does smile. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” He lets out his breath and looks down at the menu, forcibly turning his attention away from Morse. Back to the here and now – his date with the first woman he’s been truly interested in in a long time. 

“What’s good?”

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Over dinner Peter learns that Hope comes from a cattle ranching family – 800 head, which seems an unmanageable number here in Oxfordshire where scarcely more than a dozen graze together. She likes music and dancing and punting on the river in the summer, but dreams of returning home to her vast parks and open wilderness. 

“I wish you could see it,” she says, and for the first time in his life Peter finds himself truly wondering about life abroad. Whether it might be not just different, but better. 

“Will you let me walk you home?” he asks, at the end of their meal. She agrees. 

Outside the cold slices razor-sharp under his camel-hair coat, and he shivers and stuffs his hands deep into his pockets. She laughs; her coat is heavy worsted wool and fox fur at the collar, far warmer than his. “This is hardly fall weather back home,” she says, and tucks her arm under his.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you,” he says honestly; even in the frigid air she blushes.

“Oh?”

“There’s no one who doesn’t find this weather filthy.”

She laughs, voice clear as crystal in the winter darkness. Around them, lampposts let out circles of buttery light, casting their sheen down on the pale pavement below. 

Peter is suddenly struck by the fact that there is still laughter and joy alive in the world, that the shroud of anxiety and guilt that’s enveloped him for nearly a week lives only in his mind. That beyond it there’s still beauty. And hope.

Peter pauses and, when Hope turns to him, bends to kiss her in the moonlight. 

“I think you should take me home now,” she says when they finally break apart, her hands fisted in his coat, her eyes shining bright with desire.

He does.

\--------------------------------------------------------

It’s snowing when Peter wakes several hours later and reaches out to peer through dusty curtains. The flakes are tumbling down like flecks of gold in the lamplight, blanketing the ground in a soft cover. Beside him Hope stirs, and he pulls himself up. “I should go. Work tomorrow.”

“I’ll see you again, won’t I?” she asks, reaching for him. He presses her fingers in his hand, finds the tips cool. He raises them to kiss them, smiling lopsidedly. 

“Count on it. I’ll leave my number on the table.”

He gets up and dresses silently in the greyness, then produces a business card and pen. On the back of it, with care, he prints his home number. And then, under it, _Peter._


	2. Chapter 2

The first person DI Thursday calls for on waking up is his wife; the second is Morse. Peter hears it from Strange, who was there. With Morse still under murder charges Thursday’s situation as an accessory is unclear – although only to anyone who doesn’t know him. Thus the constant presence of a bluebottle and, in Kidlington’s one concession to Cowley, a familiar one to the Thursday family. 

“He wants to see you, matey,” Strange reports some hours later after his shift change, while Peter lights a thoughtful cigarette.

“Doubt that’s a good idea,” he replies, taking a drag. The soft warmth of the nicotine is comforting, soothes his raw nerves. The whole station has been waiting for Thursday’s return to consciousness, but for all of them – and especially for Peter – it means a reckoning as to their absence when most needed. 

“He wants to know what’s happened to Morse.”

Peter looks up, eyes hard and glinting. “What did you tell him?”

Strange shifts his weight heavily, pulling his hands out of his pockets and crossing his arms. “That he’s fine – what could I say? The old man’s been out for more than a week; he doesn’t need the truth.”

“Damn straight,” agrees Peter, taking a drag. “So what’s the problem?”

“Don’t think he believes me. He wanted to see him, so I told him Morse’s on suspension pending enquiry. That’s when he asked for you.”

Peter finds his hand is suddenly shaky. He puts the cigarette down on the side of the ashtray and fists his fingers, searching for strength and not finding it. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says again, surprised by his own honesty.

“Are you saying you won’t go?”

For an instant he’s back in the smoky fug of the pub, with Morse staring at him wide-eyed and desperate: _I need your help; Thursday’s out at Blenheim Vale._ He had said no, then. 

He ducks his head, running a hand over his smooth hair. “No,” he says, quietly. “I’ll go.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------

“Where’s Morse?”

Thursday looks a complete wreck. He’s lying propped up by a small fleet of pillows, a network of tubes running into his arm and up under the neck of his pyjama top. His usually sun-browned complexion is ashen and there’s a faint sheen of sweat on his skin. He’s lost weight; it’s obvious in the way his cheeks have drawn in and his chin has become more prominent. Peter’s seen worse, but usually on DeBryn’s slab.

“He’s on suspension; orders from Kidlington,” lies Peter smoothly, taking a seat in the empty chair at the Inspector’s bedside. It’s cheap molded plastic and the back bends alarmingly when he rests his weight against it. 

Thursday gives him an unimpressed look. “Glad to know you and Strange’ve gotten your story straight. Now tell me where he is. A goddamned suspension wouldn’t keep him from visiting,” he adds, voice beginning to crack up. He has to pause to cough, his shaking body folding in on itself to produce an ugly wet sound. 

“You should rest,” says Peter, worried by the sound of the cough and the way Thursday’s trembling. Thursday sweeps an inpatient hand at him.

“Bloody well tell me,” he demands, rough as rust, spittle on his lips. 

Peter licks his lips. “He’s in Farnleigh,” he says at last, crumbling under the Inspector’s furious stare. 

“F-Farnleigh,” coughs Thursday, grabbing the railing at the side of the bed and holding on through several gasping breaths. “What – _why_ –”

“He was arrested for the murder of Chief Constable Standish. Deere put out an order for his arrest before he met you at Blenheim Vale. He murdered the Chief Constable with Morse’s scarf, pinned the blame on him, according to Morse. We’ve been trying to make Kidlington see reason, but so far…” he spreads his hands in a gesture of futility. “We’ll get him out sooner or later, sir,” he adds, seeing Thursday’s aghast expression. 

“Deere had it in for us from the first; shot me from the shadows. Coward. And you?” he adds, tacking the question on in a way that makes Peter’s blood run cold. He feels a sweat break out even in the chill of the large open ward, face flushing. 

“Me, sir?” he struggles to keep his tome cool.

“You let them take him in, did you?” asks Thursday, thickly. 

Peter swallows. “Wasn’t there, sir. Had the night off.”

Thursday’s eyes rake over him, and he can only imagine what they find. He tries to stare back disaffectedly, but is very aware his façade is cracking. “Mr Bright’s been fighting to get him released; we’ve all been working to prove he’s innocent, sir. Even Miss Frazil and the Mail are on side. He’ll get out; it’s just a matter of when.”

Thursday looks at him. Despite the IV bags and the pilling hospital blanket and his pyjamas, there is real threat in his eyes. “If he’s not out by the time I’m released, I’ll get him out of there myself,” he says, tone low and dangerous. 

Peter believes him. Believes that this man would march right up to the gates to have Morse released on his personal authority, and damn the consequences. 

“You can trust us, sir,” says Peter. Thursday’s bland, unimpressed look says it all.

“Can I?” he intones. 

In his heart, Peter doesn’t blame him. 

\---------------------------------------------------------

When he returns to the station there’s a note in Strange’s blocky writing sitting on the centre of his desk; a number and beside it, _Miss Bolton_. He sits down, motions to Strange and waits for the man to come over. 

“Pull the files on Ned Shinwell, will you?” he asks, naming a local petty crook. Strange nods and bustles away, heading for the card catalogues. As soon as he’s out of hearing range, Peter picks up the phone and calls the number listed. It rings three times before a bright female voice answers.

“Hello?”

“Hope?” he asks, in a smooth tone.

“Peter. I’m sorry to call you at work, but I couldn’t get hold of you on the other number. I wondered…” her voice turns a little cold, as if preparing for a brush off.

“Sorry about that; I’ve been working long hours lately. Fancy a drink? I could manage this evening – seven?”

“I’d like that.” She’s smiling again, he can hear it in her voice, warm as summer sunshine. Some of her pleasure imparts itself to him, and he finds himself smiling back.

“Same pub. I’ll see you then,” he says, and hangs up. When Strange returns with the file, he doesn’t even bother to pretend to read it.

\--------------------------------------------------------

Hope is sitting in the corner when he gets there; she already has a pale pint of lager sitting in front of his empty seat. He smiles and takes her hand, giving a squeeze as he sits down. “Sorry I wasn’t home when you called,” he says, meaning it. Most girls, he feels only ambivalence about the possibility of a call back. This time is different. 

“It seems like you’ve got a lot on your plate.” She’s drinking port and lemon tonight; despite the fact that he’s on time she’s already downed nearly half of it.

He raises his eyebrows inquisitively. “And you?”

Her face paints a picture of resignation. “I’m trying to finish my doctorate for the end of the year; that means the work doesn’t stop, even over the holidays.”

“I know what you mean. Christmas, New Year’s – all they mean is people getting boozed up and causing trouble. Used to think it was students, mostly, but they save it for Guy Fawkes and boat race night. Christmas-time, it’s the locals who get pissed and start fights in the high street.” 

“I suppose I had better be on my best behaviour,” she says, taking a sip of her drink without taking her eyes off him; the teasing smile she gives makes his heart pick up its paces.

“You’re not a local.”

“Neither are you – does that make us exempt?”

“Or we have to try harder.” He pulls out a cigarette and lights it, enjoying the way her face looks warm and becoming in the flame’s small circle of light. “What will you do when you finish your doctorate?” he asks, taking a drag. 

The smile slowly fades from her face and she straightens. “I’ll go back home. It’s what I came here for – there’s nothing else keeping me here. This town is beautiful, but it’s not mine.”

It’s not his either, as her words reminded him. He’s worked hard over the past two years to fit in here, but every dry, condescending quip from an academic reminds him he doesn’t. Oxford may be pretty as a picture on top, but it’s all cut-throat pride, vanity and power-mongering on the bottom. 

“I know what you mean,” he says, taking a drink. 

For all that up until now his life has been full of parties and pubs and clubs and birds, he suddenly feels lonely. He’s skated through life since Blenheim Vale without ever letting it touch him, smooth as ice, and just as slippery. 

“How is Constable Morse?” she asks, eyes serious. 

Peter takes a drink. “He’s been moved to Farnleigh – the local prison. We’re working to get him out, but so far…” He cuts off his words before he finishes. His voice feels rough in his throat, uneven and uncontrolled. 

It’s easy to say he’s working on it. Easy to put all his effort into the case, into finding every shred of evidence that Morse is innocent to throw in Kidlington’s face. But the truth of it is that he could break this case wide open at any moment he chooses. And he won’t. Won’t speak, because some secrets can’t be told.

The guilt is eating him alive. 

“Is he alright?” she asks. “I mean… it can’t be easy. Especially as he’s being held for a crime he didn’t commit.”

In truth, Peter has no idea. He’s purposely avoided speaking to Morse, avoided any suggestion that he might go out to either Kidlington or Farnleigh on a visit. Christ, but he’s a coward.

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully, “but I’ll find out.” He finishes off his lager. Her glass is already sitting empty beside her elbow, her chin resting on the upraised palm of her hand. 

“You’re very honest,” she tells him. 

“That’s not what people usually say,” he replies, dryly. 

She cants her head thoughtfully to the side, lips soft and moist. “Then they’re wrong.”

Peter leans forward and kisses her lightly from across the table. He’s done with this conversation, with all this self-inflicted pain, with worrying about Morse, and Thursday, and himself. “Will you come home with me?” he asks suddenly. 

She nods. 

\------------------------------------------------

In the past he’s always looked at birds as a bit of tail and nothing more. Some better lays than others, some chatterers, some soppy. He’s become adept at one-night stands, at taking what he wants and leaving – and damn the consequences.

This feels very different. When Hope caresses him, when she runs her hand down his face and kisses him softly, he feels warm inside. Feels as though there might be more to the world than kicks and cruelty and the occasional quick flash of pleasure in between. She undresses him slowly and he lets her, enjoys the smooth stroke of her fingers over his skin, the touch of her breath on his throat, the glint in her blue eyes as she pushes his vest up over his chest. For once he doesn’t press for control, and the hint of nervousness in him is quickly subsumed by bright enjoyment. She kisses the pads of his fingers while undoing his belt, his trousers slipping down over his hips. 

She pauses with her hand resting over his naval, the band of his shorts under her thumb. 

“Go on then,” he tells her, grinning. She leans forward to kiss him and slides her hand down. 

\-----------------------------------------------

They leave together the next morning, Hope kissing him goodbye on the building’s front step. Peter watches her go, and it’s a moment before he realizes his eyes haven’t slid automatically to the long line of her legs. He shakes his head and turns to head to his bus stop. 

He stops in to see Bright as soon as he arrives, the DCS looking up in surprise when he pokes his head in. “Could I have a minute, sir?”

Bright sets down his pen and straightens. “Very well, sergeant.”

He steps in, shutting the door behind him. “It’s about Morse, sir. I’d like to see him.”

Bright’s eyes narrow, but his tone remains thoughtful. “You know his handling is being left to Kidlington.”

“Yes, sir. I didn’t mean about the case. I think he’s owed an update on Thursday’s condition, and what we’re doing for him. It’s the least we could do.” _The least_ he _could do._

Bright taps his fingers on his blotter, mouth curved in a shallow frown. “It’s unconventional, to be sure,” he begins. As he speaks he looks across the room at the framed photos there – pictures of past colleagues and officers, pictures of friends. “But perhaps, in this case, merited. Very well. I will speak to the warden about it. A visit on compassionate grounds.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Let him know that we’ll have him released as soon as we can, sergeant. As you say, he’s owed that.”

\-----------------------------------------------------

Peter drives out alone to Farnleigh, the wide cinderblock building sitting on the county outskirts in the middle of farming land. The fields stretch out in all directions, bisected by barbed wire demarcating the prison’s border. The day is clear and cold, the fields white with frost. A lone robin sits on the naked branch of an oak overlooking the car park, its bright breast the only flash of colour for miles. 

Peter chaffs his hands as he walks from the car to the front of the prison, producing his warrant card at the entrance and signing in. He’s taken to wait for an escort, then walked through the long bland corridors. His footsteps echo on the linoleum. 

Most of the inmates are out of their cells for a supervised break. “Yours keeps to his cell. Best place for him,” reports the guard, leading him through the large common room and down a well-lit corridor lined with iron-bars. 

It’s not his first time in prison, of course. But this is the first time he’s visited with a knot in his chest, a sensation bordering on pain, as nervous apprehension runs its knife over his nerves. 

He doesn’t know what to say to Morse. Doesn’t know if the DC will even speak to him after what passed between them, after Peter’s failure to stand up to his past and accompany Morse on his doomed mission. One of his clearest memories of that night is Morse striding away in silence after his collapse, unwilling even to waste more time on him. 

Peter doesn’t blame him. 

The guard comes to a stop outside cell 058 and raps his baton on the bars. 

The man inside looks up from a book, the lines of his face sharp and clean-cut. 

Morse. 

Peter swallows sharply; it feels like acid trickling down his throat. Morse has a black eye, the skin blue-black fading to red around the edges and swollen. His lip has been split recently, the pallor of his lip cross-cut by a bright red wound. He’s wearing a charcoal grey prison suit, its loose fit hiding the sharp line of his back and shoulders. 

At the sight of Peter he snaps his book shut and puts it down, standing and stepping over in one smooth movement to catch the bars with his hands. 

“What’s happened to Thursday?” he demands, eyes so intense Peter has to fight not to take a step back. He looks like a caged tiger, fury twisting him tight as a whip.

“Nothing. I mean – he’s alright. In hospital. Bullet’s still in his chest. But he’s awake and talking. They’ll keep him there for a while, ‘til he’s fit to go home.” 

The guard leans in to open the door and let Peter into Morse’s tiny cell, stepping back to wait outside. 

Morse relaxes marginally, backing away to stand beside the bed. “Thank God. Those bastards out at Kidlington won’t pass on anything. I thought…” he shakes his head. His hair is dirtier than usual, falling in lank clumps; his clothes are wrinkled and faded. He is at least clean-shaven, but it’s a small mercy. 

“You look like hell,” says Peter, honestly, looking again to Morse’s bruised face. 

“Coppers aren’t popular in prison,” replies Morse in a flat tone. “The prison officers try to keep me segregated, but…” he shrugs, eyes falling. “Accidents happen.”

“We’re going to get you out. Just as soon as we can. Bright’s pushing this one right to the top, and we’re all behind him. Even Miss Frazil at the Mail’s flying your standard. They can’t hold out much longer – there’s too much evidence against Deere and Chard.”

Morse looks him straight in the eye, and Peter sees with a shock a kind of surrender he’s never known in the DC before. “All it should have taken was a look at the bullet holes in the Jag. If you haven’t gotten me out by now on the strength of that… Power makes right. You know that.”

His words are like a blow to the teeth; Peter bites his tongue and tastes blood.

“That’s not what you used to believe,” he replies. “Not what you went out to Blenheim Vale for.”

Morse stares back steadily. “And where did that get me?”

“You saved Thursday’s life.”

“Two people are dead because of me.” Morse’s eyes are blazing, his hands fisted tight at his sides. 

“And me,” replies Peter, quietly. “I’m just as guilty as you. If I’d gone, maybe I could have stopped Deere. Stopped it all. Instead…”

Morse softens. The fire in his eyes banks, his stiff shoulders fall. “That’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it? If I spoke out now, you’d be free.”

“There’s no reason to think anyone would believe you – they didn’t believe any of the other lads. And once it got out it would mean the end of your career, like as not. It’s not worth it. If I have to go to court, I will. They don’t have the evidence to prove me guilty.”

Jakes feels the knot in his chest loosen minutely. “It won’t come to that. Promise. The whole of the CID’s working around the clock. We’ll get you out.”

“Time,” says the guard from outside, looking around the corner. 

“Just look after yourself for a little longer,” says Peter. “Right?”

Morse gives him an old, tired look. “Right,” he says.

Peter wishes he believed it. 

\-------------------------------------------------

“How is Morse?” asks Bright, stopping by his desk later in the day. Peter looks up from his cigarette, frowning.

“He’s taken a beating, sir. Some of the other inmates. He wants out.”

Bright folds his arms behind his back, adopting his parade stance. “Low spirits, eh? I trust you assured him we were doing all we could in his cause.”

“Yes, sir. But I’m not sure it was enough.”

Bright frowns. “He ought to have faith in us.” 

“I think that’s easier said than done at the moment, sir,” answers Peter, thinking of Morse trapped alone in his tiny cell, surrounded on all sides by men who have been put away by coppers. “He was glad to hear that Thursday’s awake,” he adds, conscious of not making Morse out to be a whinger. 

“Indeed.” Bright rocks on his toes for a moment, nodding to himself. “We will, of course, continue to act with the utmost expediency to resolve this matter.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Carry on, then.” Bright marches away and Peter slumps back into his chair. 

Even with all the expediency in the world, it may be weeks before they can shift County; weeks before they can get Morse out. God only knows what state he’ll be in by then. 

Peter stubs out his cigarette and rests his head in his hands. He has no idea what to tell Thursday the next time he sees the old man. In truth, he doesn’t much know what to tell himself, either.


End file.
